


and drive you on

by raumdeuter



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Crossdressing Kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-19 00:00:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5948209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raumdeuter/pseuds/raumdeuter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I thought I’d stop in and say hello,” says Thomas. “Make sure you hadn’t wasted away to nothing in my absence. And then I remembered I never gave you your spare house key back.”</p><p>“And the dirndl is, what, a souvenir from Brazil?” says Holger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and drive you on

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Imkerin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imkerin/gifts).



> so I wrote this before the news came out this morning that Holger was injured a g a i n
> 
> i hate everything

“Well, Herr Badstuber,” says Thomas, in the thickest Bairisch Holger’s ever heard in his life, “aren’t you going to come in?”

Holger stays frozen in the doorway, his mouth open. After a moment he realizes nothing particularly intelligent is going to come out of it, so he closes it.

“I thought I’d stop in and say hello,” says Thomas. “Make sure you hadn’t wasted away to nothing in my absence. And then I remembered I never gave you your spare house key back.”

“And the dirndl is, what, a souvenir from Brazil?” says Holger, finding his tongue at last.

“No,” says Thomas. He stretches luxuriously across Holger’s bed, ruffles fanning out across the sheets. “This one’s mine, the other one was pink, which isn’t even my color. You don’t even remember the photo I sent you. I’m hurt.”

Slow realization begins to fizzle through Holger’s brain. Of course he remembers the photo Thomas sent him. He remembers it very clearly and on a regular basis, usually late at night with his hand down his pants. He doesn’t remember the text he sent back, only that it took far too long for him to respond--he figures Thomas had to have known, then.

“I remember you had your apron tied at the front back then, too,” says Holger, the beginnings of a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, and at Thomas’s shameless wink he lunges forward, pinning Thomas to the bed in a flurry of red and white, and whispers against Thomas’s jaw: _"You fucking liar."_

Holger can feel Thomas’s cheek twitching into a grin against his, a huff of laughter tickling his ear. Thomas attempts what he must think is some kind of lascivious wiggle, but he only ends up poking Holger in the stomach with his knee, and when Holger flinches back Thomas grins wider and does it again, so Holger jabs Thomas in the side, right where he’s sensitive, and Thomas yelps, sending them both tumbling off the bed and onto the floor.

Holger sits up first, keeping Thomas pinned between his knees, laughing as Thomas struggles in mock outrage beneath him. His apron knot’s come loose and his blouse is threatening to slide off one pale shoulder--Brazil was good to him, but Thomas has never really _tanned_ \--and Holger’s breath catches absurdly at the sight. He leans down and presses his mouth to Thomas’s collarbone, just above the wrinkled blouse, and Thomas tolerates it for all of two seconds before he makes an impatient noise and drags Holger up for a real kiss.

Thomas should taste different now, thinks Holger stupidly, after Brazil; should taste of he-doesn’t-know-what, sun and sea and cocktails that don’t adhere to the diet plan. But he doesn’t; he tastes like himself, with maybe a trace of acidity from his afternoon coffee, sugar, no milk, and Holger is suddenly, unspeakably grateful for it. He reaches down, fumbling in an attempt to undo the bodice, and Thomas promptly smacks his hand away.

“Careful with that,” says Thomas, because he’s never understood the concept of setting the mood. “These things don’t come cheap, you know--although to be fair, I didn’t know either, until last week.”

“I’ll get you another,” says Holger recklessly, reaching for the bodice again, and this time Thomas doesn’t resist, only smiles indulgently up at Holger, teeth barely showing, as Holger half-unties, half-tears away the fastenings and lets the bodice fall open. The feel of Thomas’s ribs under his hands is both familiar and alien, the sharp lines softened by the layers of fabric. Holger traces his fingers across the ridges, then further down, and watches Thomas inhale once, sharply, then exhale through his nose.

“I did miss you,” says Holger quietly, even though it feels a bit stupid to say it out loud when Thomas is here, when Thomas already knows, without his having to put it in anything as awkward as words. “Even if I’m glad you got called up and--and everything.”

“Everything’s a good word for it,” says Thomas. His grin widens. “Ah, well, you know the old song. For years they’ve been telling us to come back as heroes, and we figured if we actually went and got it over with they’d stop nagging us about it.”

Holger stills. Suddenly he’s a continent away, in Cape Town on a summer night, delirious with victory: the smell of wet grass, the weight of arms slung around his shoulders, a song in a language he doesn’t understand. He’s on the balcony at Marienplatz, listening to the crowd chant his name, and the sound echoes off trophies he hasn't earned. He’d been close, then, close as he’d ever been to knowing. As he’ll probably ever be.

“Mm,” he says, noncommittal, and Thomas sobers at once, the shit-eating grin sliding away.

“Listen--” he says, just as Holger says, “It’s nothing.”

“It isn’t,” says Thomas, and before Holger can stop him he wriggles upright. “If I’d had to watch an entire treble season and a World Cup from the sidelines I wouldn’t be tagging all my Instagram posts with _never give up_ , I can tell you that. Probably the DFB would’ve fined me for excessive profanity by now.” He pauses. “And also just--excessiveness, in general.”

“I think about it sometimes,” says Holger. This isn’t the conversation he’d expected to be having right about now, but Thomas looks oddly serious for a man only half-wearing a dirndl. “And then I realize what a nightmare it would be and decide to spare my agent the headache.”

“Very touching,” says Thomas. “You’re a shoo-in for German Football Ambassador of the Year. Beat out all the Madridistas voting for Toni, which is the real achievement here, let’s be honest.” 

Holger snorts despite himself. Thomas’s eyes crinkle up at the corners for just a moment before his gaze narrows. He doesn’t use that look on people often--he’s rarely serious enough for it--but when he does Holger has always been put in mind of a bird of prey, the sort that could pin him to the wall with a glance, all the sharper for being unexpected.

For one awful moment Holger thinks he’s going to say something deep. Not that he doesn’t trust Thomas to say the right thing. For someone who talks as much shit as he does, Thomas has a strange knack for striking--hah--at the heart of a matter right when a man really needs it, even if it’s couched in idiom or peppered with insults. But if Thomas says something now--Holger thinks he might be afraid to hear it, and he’s not sure how he’d react, if he does.

Thomas eyes Holger for a moment longer, hawklike, then smiles and shakes his head. “Anyway. I’m glad you’re back, too. Felt naked out there on the pitch without you.”

Holger lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “As if being naked has ever stopped you from doing anything.”

“Very true.” Thomas tilts his head, considering. “You should try it sometime.”

“It’s bad for PR,” says Holger dryly, and dodges as Thomas tries to flick his ear.

“Idiot,” he says. “As if you’re not generating bad PR for yourself every time you hold a press conference. It looks like you french-kiss a lemon before you go out there.”

“I thought you said that was my default face,” says Holger.

“Two lemons, then. Come on, I didn’t stuff myself into a dirndl just to watch you mope.” Thomas leans back and draws up a corner of his skirt invitingly, his fingers trailing over his thigh with exaggerated slowness, and absurd as it looks it goes straight to Holger’s cock. “And this weißwurst isn’t going to zuzel itself.”

“God, you’re awful,” Holger says, but he leans forward and pushes up the skirt the rest of the way. He wasn’t expecting Thomas to have anything on underneath, but he’s wearing a pair of panties, Bayern red, made of some delicate and insubstantial material, and Holger actually has to sit back for a moment and take in the sight of them stretched across the angles of Thomas’s hipbones, tented slightly by his cock, already half-hard.

“What can I say,” says Thomas, “I’m dedicated to my craft--oh, _fuck, _” he adds, as Holger drops his head and nuzzles at Thomas’s cock, mouthing at it through the fabric until Thomas tips his head back, shuddering, and snakes his hand down to bury his fingers in Holger’s hair. Then, suddenly, he frowns.__

“What,” says Holger warily.

“Your hairline,” says Thomas, “it’s a little concerning. I liked it more when you were rocking the Bieber.”

Holger scowls up at him. “I bet I’d have more if you didn’t keep pulling at it every time I tried to give you a blowjob.”

Thomas adopts a look of patient martyrdom. “It seems the situation is regrettable but unavoidable, part of man’s inexorable shuffle off the mortal coil. I will manage somehow. Carry on.”

His voice is remarkably steady, but his thighs are tense under Holger’s hands, and when Holger delicately seizes the waistband of the panties between his teeth and drags them down, Thomas groans audibly, blunt fingernails digging suddenly into the nape of Holger’s neck.

“This was a brilliant idea,” he mumbles. “I’m brilliant. I should do this more often.”

Holger would offer some kind of rebuttal, but finding new ways to shut Thomas up is ninety percent of the fun. He takes Thomas into his mouth with deliberate slowness, flicking his tongue against the tip of Thomas’s cock, already faintly bitter with precome; he circles the base of it loosely with one hand and teases Thomas’s balls with the other, frustratingly light, until Thomas is writhing impatiently under him, tangling the apron and skirts around Holger’s head in a cloud of red. Holger can feel Thomas’s hips straining, can feel him doing his level best not to buck into Holger’s mouth, and Holger smiles against his cock for just a second before he takes Thomas deep in one smooth movement.

_"Fuck!"_ Thomas’s hips snap forward as his back arches, and Holger pushes him down again almost immediately, his thumbs pressing insistently into the hollows of Thomas’s hips as he bobs his head. “Fuck, Holger, every time you do that--” He breaks off, gasping something unintelligible, and fists his free hand into the hem of his skirt. 

Holger hollows his cheeks around Thomas’s cock again, drawing another muffled groan from somewhere above him. He can’t see Thomas’s face, the dirndl’s in the way, but he can picture it, has seen it enough times to know: Thomas’s head thrown back, eyes shut tight, mouth still doing its level best to form words. 

The thought of it makes him painfully hard; he’s tempted, for a moment, to ease up just so he can get a hand on himself, but Thomas is a live wire under his hands now, bucking up into his throat so frantically he thinks he might suffocate if he lets go. Instead he settles for rutting into the carpet, the pressure of his jeans against his dick just uncomfortable enough to hold him at bay for now.

And Thomas is close already, the vein on the underside of his cock throbbing against Holger’s tongue, his breathing beginning to stutter. Thomas’s hand tightens against Holger’s head, a silent order; Holger skims his fingers down past Thomas’s balls and presses a single digit into him, and almost before he can even crook his finger Thomas is coming, spilling in hot pulses down Holger’s throat.

This is the part that always brings Holger to the edge: the feeling of Thomas as close to quiet as he’ll ever get, only sharp breaths in and out, just shy of ragged, even his hand temporarily frozen where it’s buried in Holger’s hair. Holger stays stock-still where he is, pressed with his nose against Thomas’s stomach, and swallows as best he can. Then Thomas exhales once, slowly, shakily, and his fingers slide away from the side of Holger’s head.

“God,” he says, as Holger surfaces, wiping his mouth with a sleeve, “come here, you,” and kisses him again, all teeth and tongue and no polish. At some point during the kiss Thomas’s hands undo Holger’s fly and deftly draw out his cock, so that when Holger finally pulls away it only takes a few quick pumps for him to reach his own climax. He doesn’t mean to come all over the dirndl; he’s pretty sure Thomas is responsible, somehow, because at the sight of it decorating the bodice and apron in pale streaks his dick gives another halfhearted twitch, and Thomas grins lazily up at him.

“There’s lube in the apron pocket,” he says, “if you want another go. I came prepared for every eventuality.”

“Greed isn’t a good look on you,” says Holger, rolling over and collapsing on the floor next to him. The world is beginning to go soft and warm and pleasant, so that when Thomas reaches over to flick his ear again he lets him.

“Everything’s a good look on me,” says Thomas amiably, and in another few seconds is fast asleep.

Holger stays awake for a little while longer, fighting the urge to drift off. In the morning he’ll wake to the sounds of Thomas making coffee for the two of them, and they’ll sit down and drink it together, and one of them will still be a world champion, and one of them won’t.

But for now, he thinks, as sleep claims him, it’s enough. This is enough.


End file.
